


a strange fate with wandering limbs

by bergamots



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, other characters may turn up, this is not a happy story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:54:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 13,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamots/pseuds/bergamots
Summary: On June 19th, Riza Hawkeye falls asleep at approximately 11:28pm. On June 20th, she doesn't wake up.





	1. winry rockbell

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: Riza Hawkeye dies in her sleep and there's nothing anybody could have done to prevent it. 
> 
> I came across a prompt that simply said ‘imagine one half of your otp dies’ and this is the result. This is easily one of the most difficult things I’ve written simply because I’ve killed Riza and she doesn’t deserve this.
> 
> Last year I had a mate die in their sleep and let me tell you that fucked me over a ton bc he wasn't even 21 - I wasn't aware SADS (sudden arrhythmic death syndrome) was a thing. 
> 
> Each chapter will focus on one character in particular in the aftermath of her death and the lead-up to her funeral. I don’t know if I’ll write from Mustang’s perspective yet. 
> 
> Title take from Kimbra's song Wandering Limbs
> 
> warnings: major character death, a lot of sad feelings, mentions of suicide

Winry is putting the finishing touches on a cake for the new family that moved a few kilometres away when Edward answers the phone. Almost ten minutes pass before he walks into the kitchen, the colour completely gone from his face. 

“Captain Hawkeye’s dead,” he says finally, and Winry drops her piping bag onto the ground, lilac buttercream frosting flying everywhere. 

“What?” she asks, moving from behind the kitchen bench to where he's sat down on the couch. “What do you mean she's dead?”

“They found her in bed,” he answers hoarsely, hardly noticing that she's taken his hand in hers and is gripping his fingers tightly. “She didn't turn up for work so they went to check on her and they just...found her.”

She sits there for a while with him, trying to process what seemed impossible – Captain Hawkeye was a person that simply could not die. Did not die. 

Was dead. 

“I should go to East,” Ed says eventually, sniffing and rubbing at his eyes. “The General- _fuck, the General..._ ”

“He didn't tell you?”

Ed shakes his head. “No, it was Lieutenant Fuery. I never even thought- _fuck_ , I need to organise a ticket right now-”

“I’m coming with you,” Winry says softly, squeezing her husband’s hand. “You’re not doing this alone-”

“Who’s going to take care of Oscar and Nina-”

“I’ll call Keira, I’ve sat for her kids before, it’ll be fine-”

“The funeral's not until Thursday-”

“It doesn't matter when the funeral is, I’m coming with you to East and you're not saying no.” Winry interrupts firmly, fixing her husband with a stern expression. 

He stares at her, before his faces softens. “Thank you, Winry,” he says quietly, kissing her forehead gently and squeezing her hands briefly before letting go. 

She follows him onto the porch, where the tack and saddle are stored and watches as he prepares the horse. 

“Do you want me to call Al?” she asks as he settles himself into the saddle. 

A stricken look crosses Ed's face. "Fuck, I don't know if Lieutenant Fuery knew where to contact him. I...” he trails off, looking in the direction of the train station in the distance. “Can you call him? Tell him I’ll call him tonight if he's available.”

Winry nods, and strokes the mare’s neck. “Be safe,” she says softly, and watches as he canters down the lane. 

“Mummy?”

She turns with a practiced smile for her son. “What is it, Oscar?”

“Where’s daddy going?” Winry notices that his hands are covered in lilac buttercream. 

“The train station,” Winry replies, picking the boy up and walking back inside towards the kitchen. “Your dad and I have to go to East City this week.”

“Why?”

“Something very sad has happened,” she explains, setting him down by the kitchen bench and grabbing a wet cloth from the sink to wipe up the buttercream mess on the floor. “I don't think you remember her, but your father and I just found out a friend of ours has died. We're going to her funeral.”

“Is she on the board?”

Winry pauses in her cleaning up. “I think so,” she answers. “She has blonde hair like yours and she's wearing a blue uniform.”

Oscar walks out of the room for a few minutes before returning with a photograph of General Mustang and Captain Hawkeye, Ed's crudely drawn moustache still prominent. “Is it this lady?” he asks, pointing a buttercream covered finger at the picture. 

Winry wills herself not to break down in tears just yet. "Yes, that's her," she replies unevenly. 

Oscar looks at her for a moment before tugging on her apron. “Sit down,” he commands imperiously and Winry can't help but laugh a little. But she does as she's told and Oscar settles himself down in her lap and pats on her arms that naturally curl around him in a reassuring fashion. “She’s very pretty,” he says, cocking his head to the side to see the picture better. “But her hair looks different to mine. It looks more like daddy’s.”

Winry presses a soft kiss into her son’s hair.

“When will you and daddy leave?” Oscar asks. 

“Tomorrow, probably,” she answers, feeling her eyes prickling and her throat beginning to close up. “You and Nina will go spend some time with Mrs McKinnon, okay?”

“Okay!” he says brightly and it is then that Winry breaks down, trembling and sobbing into her son’s hair. Oscar is a little confused, but strokes her hair softly and tries to sing the lullabies that she sings to him when the thunderstorms get too loud. 


	2. alphonse elric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today’s instalment is brought to you by Alphonse Elric. A little shorter, but I hope you'll forgive me. I couldn't improve on the last sentence.

Alphonse is in Dublith visiting Teacher when he gets the call from Winry. 

“Captain Hawkeye is dead,” she tells him tearfully over the bad connection from telephone in the hotel lobby. Mei had disappeared for the afternoon, citing that going to Teacher’s house without some well-wrapped food would be the ‘worst of insults’. “Ed just found out from Lieutenant Fuery,” she continues, voice hitching and breaking a little.

“You’re kidding, Winry.”

Winry makes a noise that sounds a bit like a wail. “I’m not! Ed wouldn't lie about this – he's down at the station buying tickets to get to East City as we speak. The funeral is on Thursday.”

Al is grateful he's sitting down. “Do they know what happened?” he asks, fiddling with the telephone cord and desperately trying to hold back tears. 

“Ed said that they just found her in bed - they would've said if foul play was involved-”

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says under his breath and there’s silence for a while as Winry cries and he tries his best not to.

Al runs a hand through his hair. “You said Ed was buying tickets, yeah?”

“Yeah, he said he’ll call you tonight if that’s okay…”

“I’ll be at Teacher’s by then – do you guys still have her number?”

“I think so,” Winry says quietly – he can hear the rustling of paper from her end. “872-4365, right?”

“Yeah. Tell him to call after eight and we’ll sort out accommodation then as well.”

Winry makes a soft noise of acknowledgement. “I just…” she falters, before sighing heavily – it echoes down the line, gaining a rattling metallic cadence. “It doesn’t seem real.”

“I know, Win,” Al soothes, rubbing at his temples. “Did Lieutenant Fuery say how the General was coping?”

“No,” Winry replies quietly. “I get the impression that Fuery didn’t know – or they don’t want people to know.”

Al chews on his lip, breathing deeply. The lobby is far too hot, even for the Southern district. His skin is prickling uncomfortably and he’s overcome with a sudden exhaustion that reminds him of when he was regaining his body in the months following the Promised Day.

“He will- I-” Alphonse falters, unable to find the right words. There are no right words. There will never be right words in this situation – no words that will accurately encompass how he feels, what he does not feel, what he will feel later – trembling and sobbing into Mei’s delicate frame.

Alphonse will not have the right words.

The General will not _have_.


	3. heymans breda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back to your regularly scheduled angst. Today's chapter is brought to you by Heymans Breda with a cameo by Jean Havoc.

Heymans Breda will honestly say this is the worst week of his life, and he's had some really shit ones in his lifetime. The week his mother died is up there - she had been fighting a particularly awful type of cancer and by the week of her death the skin just hung off her bones like ill-fitting clothes. But it was a death that his whole family had come to terms with weeks ago as the doctor’s predictions grew more and more dire. 

But this? Captain Hawkeye’s death and the implications that go with her death make this situation much worse on so many levels. 

 _Nothing_ compares to the scream? Wail? Howl? That is General Mustang saying the Captain’s name over and over again like it will suddenly wake her up. It is a guttural, visceral, hurting noise that reminds Breda of nails on a chalkboard. It is unnatural, and Breda has had a lot of experience with the unnatural over the years. It is not _right_. Nothing about this is right – as soon as they realised that the Captain hadn’t shown up for work Breda had a bad feeling. The woman was rarely sick, and when she was Mustang would already know (he and the other men had their own ideas about how he found out about that). The office had watched them leave, and the tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

He wished he hadn't volunteered to go with the General. He also wouldn't wish this on anybody. But here he was, sitting in Captain Hawkeye’s kitchen on the phone with the emergency services operator while he waited for the ambulance to arrive, furiously trying to ignore the guttural cries coming from the bedroom. 

Both he and the emergency services operator know that there is nothing that can bring her back. She was unnaturally still, and Black Hayate wouldn't dare go in the bedroom. Breda might not like dogs much but at least this one is smart enough to understand that his owner is beyond saving at this point.

He still can't get over the fact that she's dead. Captain Riza Hawkeye, who fought through the Ishvallan Civil War and the Promised Day and came out relatively unscathed, is dead. He had been talking to her just yesterday at work. 

It suddenly occurs to him that he will never hear her voice again, and that sets him off again. 

"Are you there, Mr Breda?" asks the operator. Breda wipes at his eyes. 

"Yeah, I am. Sorry."

"That’s fine, Mr Breda. I've just gotten notice that the ambulance has arrived, they'll be arriving at the apartment shortly. Is your..." the operator struggles a little here, probably able to hear Mustang’s cries just as well as he can.  "Is he still with her?"

"Yeah,” Breda sighs heavily, trying to calm himself enough to answer a single question without sobbing. “I think they'll have a hard time separating the two of them."

"I see. Hopefully it can be done with little stress."

Breda hears voices now, and heavy footsteps. A medic pokes his head around the front door. 

"You called for an ambulance?" he asks. 

Breda nods, and thanks the operator before hanging up the phone. 

"She’s in there but-" he's interrupted by another cry. Breda gestures to her bedroom. "Her comm- her friend is in there and he's...not taking it well."

The other medic shakes her head. "We wouldn't expect anybody to take it well. Do you think he will be violent?"

 _Shit_. "I’m...not sure," he replies. "He’s a state alchemist and he's...I’ve never seen him like this."

The first medic sighs and digs in his kit, bringing out a needle filled with some fluid. "This is a tranquilliser," he explains to Breda. "We’re going to use it on your friend because the last time we got in an alchemist’s way they nearly took my arm off. You alright with that?"

Breda holds up his hands in surrender. "Do what you need to do," he says quickly. "Do you want me in here or...?”

The two medics look at each other before looking at Breda. "Stay out here," the woman says. "Less chance you'll get injured."

Breda nods, and settles himself back down on the chair. There’s quiet voices coming from the bedroom and Breda hopes that the man can control himself for a moment before-

“ _NO! YOU WILL NOT TAKE ME FROM HER SHE’S M-”_

The medics come out a minute later, carrying Mustang and lower him onto the couch. “He should be out for a few hours,” the woman says, opening a box and passing it to the man who ducks back into the bedroom, returning moments later with the used syringe. “But I would recommend moving him somewhere else – he is obviously quite distressed. Setting him off again could be dangerous.”

Breda nods shortly, watching as the man leaves the apartment at a quick pace. “Where’s he-?”

“We need a stretcher,” she replies simply, presenting him with forms and a clipboard. He tries his best not cry again.

* * *

She leaves in a black body bag, with the medics throwing a pitying glance at Breda and Mustang, who was still passed out on the couch. Hayate whines from where he is under the couch, big black eyes focused on Breda. It is a little unnerving.

Carefully, feeling like he had aged a hundred years, Breda closes her bedroom door, resting against it and breathes deeply. Both his CO and XO are out of action. That puts him and Havoc in charge. He needs to call them.

 _Now_.

Eventually, he sits down by the phone again and punches in the familiar number. It doesn’t even ring once before Fuery picked up.

“What’s happened?” was all he asks.

Breda sighs heavily. “Captain Hawkeye has gotten a cold. Her neighbour Louise said it’s nothing to worry about. The General has admitted he might also be under the weather.”

There is the briefest of pauses before Fuery responds. “First Lieutenant Havoc will be notified. I will make the necessary arrangements here. Anything I else I need to know?”

“I might go to the bakery by Parkview General on my way back,” Breda says, watching the General carefully. “Or possibly to a tea shop on Pinewood Avenue – would you like me to get you anything?”

“No, I still have plenty of tea here. Thank you for the offer.”

There is a _click_ as the call ends, and Breda puts down the phone, hanging his head in his hands. Havoc wouldn’t take long to get here – he drove like a maniac at the best of times. How long did they have until other people made the connection? At the most, a few hours – but that was assuming people weren’t already talking about what happened in the office this morning.

Fuery could make the necessary calls within that time from his apartment – he’d grab what he needed from Mustang’s office and be gone before anybody would notice. He was good like that. Unassuming and quiet, always dropping off the radar of others’.

It has only been seven minutes when he hears Havoc striding down the hallway, and he wipes at his face for what feels like the billionth time. There’s a knock at the door, and Breda is too exhausted to walk.

“It’s open,” he calls out, and Havoc enters and takes one look at Mustang on the couch before locking the door behind him quickly and pulls Breda into crushing hug.

“Fuery said Louise-”

“He did-”

“ _Fucking hell,_ ” Havoc mutters darkly, slapping Breda on the back as he pulls back and looks to where Mustang is. “We’re going to Madame’s?”

Breda nods. “I haven’t called her yet, I-”

Havoc shakes his head firmly. “You’ve done more than enough Breda. Go wash yourself up – you look awful. I’ll call her.”

He nods, before ducking back into her kitchenette and turning on the tap. The water is blissfully cold, and he can barely hear Havoc over the sound of the water hitting the pewter sink.

There’s a moment where Breda thinks he might be ill. It passes, but then –

Breda promptly vomits his breakfast into the sink.

* * *

It’s a few minutes before he feels like he can move without feeling faint. Havoc has sat on the couch next to the General’s limp body patiently waiting. Breda can’t understand how he can remain this calm.

“You ready to go?” asks Havoc, stubbing out the cigarette he was smoking on the ashtray next to him on the side table. Breda knows that Hawkeye doesn’t – _didn’t_ – smoke. He’ll have to come back here and remove what incriminating evidence he can find tomorrow.

“Yeah,” he says eventually, moving away from the sink. “You okay to carry him?”

Havoc nods, and makes short work of throwing Mustang over his shoulders. They walk down to where he parked the car at the back of the apartment complex, Breda watching carefully for anything out of the ordinary – and any eyes where they shouldn’t be. East City is largely under the Madame’s jurisdiction, but when it comes to the General it is safer to assume that no rules apply.

Havoc covers him with his coat before sliding back into the driver’s seat, and turns the ignition. “Let’s get the fuck outta here,” he mutters, quickly merging into traffic.

It’s largely silent in the car as Havoc makes his way across town.

“Havoc,” Breda begins, fiddling with his keys uneasily. “How is- how can- the General, he didn’t take this well. And there’s still the- the funeral too.” He chokes up a little here. “Do you think he’ll manage to keep himself together enough to attend it?”

Havoc sighs. “Mate, I don’t know. So long as he’s with Madame I don’t think he’ll-” he cuts off here suddenly, an awful look growing on his face – Breda realising a second after.

He and Havoc look at each other uneasily. 

"You don't think he would-"

"He’s not that stupid-"

There's an awful silence looming over them and Breda will kick himself if he loses another colleague this week. 


	4. chris mustang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is brought to you by Chris 'Madame Christmas' Mustang. I've never written for her before so this was a really interesting piece to do. Let me know what you think!

Chris was at home when she got The Call. She’s named it that because it is The Call. Everybody has A Call in their life that changes their lives completely and fundamentally. Everything in that small moment can be remembered – she can remember the shoes she was wearing, the exact shade of the coffee that she was drinking, the perfume that her flatmate Katharine had been wearing before she went out to work.

She dreads to think how it is for her son. By blood and by law he is her nephew, but if she is being brutally honest he is truly the son (the child, if she’s _really_ being honest) that she never had – never wanted to have. The Call she got when her brother died has always been in the back of her mind, a little faded by time but it still cuts as harshly and as deeply as ever. It is a wound that will never heal, no matter how many stitches you sew or bandages you use to cover it up.

She cannot imagine the terror her boy is going through – the second unanswered phone in his life that has ended in tragedy, and though Riza’s death is made a little easier to deal with because there is nobody to blame – Chris thinks that it could not have been a harsher punishment for her son.  If she had been murdered, Chris mused, at least he could expel all his energy into finding her killer – and avenge her death with as much dignity as he could muster in his grief.

But there is no time to grieve like this – not when the medics declared her dead in her bedclothes and wrapped her up for some morgue technician to unfurl and understand like some revolting kind of puzzle. Riza – sweet Riza, _kind_ Riza – will be buried by Thursday afternoon and it will be finished, done and dusted. Chris is worried that it will not be the only burial she attends this year. Roy had always been an emotional child, and she truly thinks that his grief could spell his end if Havoc’s frantic call hadn’t been exaggerating. She doesn’t imagine he had.

She watches grimly as Breda and Havoc enter the bar, her boy slung over Havoc’s shoulder like a damsel in distress. She gestures to the door next to her, and Havoc ducks his way through, depositing Mustang on the bed within with little grace.

Chris glances back to Breda, who is looking like he could use a nap (or ten). “Breda,” she says softly, moving from behind the bar and envelops the burly man in a warm hug. There’s an awkward moment where neither of them want to pull away – but then Havoc slips back into the room and the moment is gone. Now was not the time to properly address their own well-being – not with a literal ‘human weapon’ passed out in the next room. “How bad?” she asks.

Breda sits down on the parlour couch and lets out the most miserable laugh she’s ever heard. “I- you-” he shakes his head. “It was awful. It was like- like- _inhuman_. Like a wounded animal.”

Chris nods slowly and takes out a cigarette. “Did the medic say how long the tranquiliser would work for?”

“A few hours, at best,” Breda replies, Havoc grabbing a lighter from his pocket and offering it to her. She accepts, and manages to shake only a little as she fumbles with the flint. “Will you be alright with him?”

Chris snorts. “What kind of question is that? Of course not. Have you got his gloves?”

Havoc hands them to her silently, a worried expression on his face. “Fuery’s got his briefcase and he said he’ll drop it off to you tomorrow if you want – he’s making all the necessary calls right now.”

“You boys have done well,” she says finally, after finishing her cigarette, stubbing it out on the bar top, passing back the lighter to Havoc. He sits down next to Breda on the couch, resting his head in his hands. “Tell Fuery,” she continues, resisting the urge to light up again, “tell him that I’ll send one of the girls ‘round tomorrow morning, before he needs to leave. I’m going to need all the help I have here tonight.”

Havoc fidgets with his lighter, turning it over and over in his hands. “We’ll keep you updated on the necessary details. Fuery will be sorting out her funeral arrangements now, and letting the right people know.”

Chris nods. “I take it Grumman has been alerted?” she asks, looking at Havoc. He pales. Breda looks confused.

“Shit – I- I hadn’t thought – Kain won’t know to-”

Chris waves her hand dismissively. “You two have done enough today, I won’t put you in harm’s way any longer. Ordinarily Mustang would be the one to call but in these circumstances…” she trails off, sighing.

Breda coughs uneasily. “Why would we need to let the Führer know?”

Chris and Havoc share a look.

“She’s his granddaughter.” Havoc finally answers, putting his lighter back into his coat pocket. “You can understand why they kept it quiet.”

Breda looks like he might faint. “She knew that though, didn’t she?”

She can’t help but laugh at that, despite the grim situation they’ve found themselves in. “Wasn’t through lack of trying Heymans, I can tell you that much,” she manages, feeling a little lighter. “It was not a familial relationship by any stretch of the imagination, despite Grumman wanting otherwise.”

Breda nods slowly. “If he comes to the funeral, people are going to notice. It’s not like Riza was murdered in cold blood – no reason for him to attend. It’ll be common knowledge by next week,” he muses. “And considering most of East, if not Central is aware that the General was his protégé-”

“-is his protégé, Breda,” Havoc interrupts, sitting up a little straighter on the couch. “Everyone knows Mustang’s being groomed for the presidency.”

“It will raise some questions,” Breda continues, his tactician’s mind already jumping ahead seven steps. “The other Generals’ might start questioning the ethics behind the Führer’s choices for parliament.” He looks up at Chris, a fierce expression on his face. “If the Führer decides to attend the funeral he’s going to need a contingency plan in place for making sure our plan doesn’t go off the rails. Can you tell him that?”

Chris frowns and purses her lips. “I doubt he will care about much the ramifications of his attendance. If you need to get people sorted out, come find me tomorrow and we’ll work something out.”

Breda nods quickly, before turning to Havoc. “I don’t suppose you told Fuery to grab anything from the _Lilibet_ folder?”

Havoc shakes his head. “Nah, but if you go back now it’ll look even more suspicious. Just the essentials?”

“Yeah. Meet you back here?”

“Sure thing.” Havoc stands, clapping a hand on the man’s back. “Both of you have a drink for me while I’m gone, okay? You both look like you could do with one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you were not aware, 'Lilibet' is the childhood nickname of Queen Elizabeth the II. Make that of what you will.


	5. kain fuery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and we come to the end of the first day. feedback, as always, is highly appreciated.

Havoc and Breda arrive back at Fuery's apartment later that evening, carrying boxes of pizza, Black Hayate trotting after them. He perks up once he sees Fuery, his tongue lolling out and sniffing at the boxes that Havoc places onto the coffee table.

"I've made all the necessary calls," says Fuery, grabbing plates from the kitchen and placing them by the pizza. "The funeral's been set for Thursday morning."

Breda nods, setting himself down on the sofa, shrugging off his wool coat. "The General's with Madame – the medics had to tranquilise him."

Fuery tries his best not to show the shock on his face, opting instead to rub Hayate's head. "That bad?" he asks quietly. Breda nods, grabbing some pepperoni pizza.

"This was different from when Brigadier General Hughes was murdered-"

"That's just it though, isn't it?" asks Havoc, sitting down on the floor and opening the second box of pizza. "At least then he had some purpose – but now-"

"He still has purpose, Jean," Breda says firmly. "If we start thinking otherwise it's a lost cause." He turns to Fuery. "Madame said she'll be picking up Lilibet tomorrow morning."

"Did you grab them?"

Havoc nods, leaning back against the couch as he picks at the olives on his pizza. "They're in my coat pocket." He motions to the hallway where he left his satchel. "There's a few others in my bag that I wasn't sure about. You and Breda can decide what to do with them." The man sighs, putting his plate back on the table. "What's our plan for tomorrow?" he asks, rubbing at his eyes.

"You and Fuery will need to show up," Breda replies. "If we're all gone East City will know by lunchtime tomorrow."

Havoc snorts. "They don't already?"

Fuery shakes his head, scratching behind Hayate's ears. "I kept an ear on the comms this morning. Nobody's overly suspicious – apparently Mary from archives was found to be having an affair with Second Lieutenant Harvey. Mrs Harvey came by at lunchtime."

"Thank fuck for Mary from archives," Breda mutters. "I'll go back to her apartment tomorrow and clean it up – I don't suppose you guys would know where she hid her files?"

Havoc frowns. "Check her ammo boxes – the ones for her twenty-two. She's had that gun since before Ishval."

There's an awkward silence that reigns over them. It's oppressive and dense and Fuery desperately wants to break it – but he's too muddled inside: his heart is in his gut and he nearly threw up as soon as he heard 'Louise'. But he had a job to do, so he swallowed it all back down and made the necessary arrangements.

Inform the next in the chain of command. Take the required files from the General's office. Don't arouse suspicion.

The 'Louise' failsafe had been in place since his first day under the General's command. What had the man said when he was explaining it? _If I never have to hear that name for as long as I live, I'll die a happy man_.

Fuery draws himself out of his thoughts. Now was not the time to ruminate and analyse and consider. "Her obituary will be in the _Eastern Evening_ tomorrow." The words are cloying in his mouth – sticky and sweet in a way that is wholly _wrong_. "I tried to get it for Wednesday morning, but the undertaker said there needed to be more time between it and the funeral." He says the words carefully, enunciates his consonants clearly. Any less and he won't be capable of coherent sound. Hayate whines besides him, licking his palm. "I intercepted the radio chatter from Parkview General as well."

Havoc opens his eyes blearily. "What did they say?"

Fuery pauses, breathing deeply. "No suspicious circumstances. She died at around three in the morning. Heart attack. They doubt she even felt it."

Breda rubs at his temples. "There's a little blessing in there, I'm sure," he mutters sarcastically. He looks to the younger man – and Fuery notices the lines around his eyes. Perhaps it is a good thing Breda won't come into work tomorrow. He has a good poker face – Fuery knows all too well from unfortunate experience – but there is no fun in hiding this sort of secret. There is no prize to be won – nor a prize that any of them care for. The fallout will be awful regardless of when the rest of Eastern Command finds out: at least in this way they can try to sort through it on their own before others suddenly appear wanting to _know_ and _how_ and _when_ and _where_.

 _I'm so sorry_ and _we're all thinking of you_ will beat a tattoo into his skull, reverberating and echoing into the corners of his existence. Fuery is grateful he is so often overlooked now. He doubts he could cope with it otherwise.

"Who knows?" Breda asks, grabbing another slice of pizza.

Fuery thinks for a moment before replying. Each name leaves his mouth tasting of ash. "Rebecca. Vato. The Elric-Rockbells. Lieutenant-Colonel Armstrong."

Breda nods. "They take it alright?"

"Rebecca's gone to Madame's. Vato's coming on the train tonight. Edward said he'd try to get in contact with Alphonse if I couldn't – they should be here by Wednesday morning at the earliest. The Lieutenant-Colonel…" he pauses here. It had been an expected reaction, but it had not made it any easier. How the man came out of Ishval in one piece would always surprise Fuery. "He's keeping an eye on the chatter in Central for me – as soon as he hears anything he'll be letting me know."

"Is it safe to assume that the _General_ Armstrong also knows?"

Fuery shrugs. "I don't think it will matter if she does or not. Though Vato's sudden departure may give her reason enough to be suspicious."

There's silence in the apartment as they eat their food quietly. Fuery savours it, committing to memory this simple moment where their grieving is private and sacred.

Tomorrow it will not be.


	6. jean havoc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you follow me on tumblr, you’ll have noticed I’m producing a lot of art (and little writing lmao). I promise I won’t forget these fics!!!!! There are definitely endgames for what’s already been published and I’m trying my best not to publish multi-chapter fics without planning them out properly, haha. We’re almost halfway on this depressing journey!!! Yay!!!!!
> 
> Warning: brief mention of suicide.

It has only been one day since Captain Hawkeye has died but already the rumour mill at Eastern City Headquarters has been run into overdrive.

Havoc fucking hates it – so much for Mary from archives taking the heat off them.

It doesn’t matter in the end; people have apparently enough sense not to approach him or Fuery (though Jean is certain people are simply forgetting that the man is part of the core team). His morning is relatively quiet and he manages to complete some paperwork.

The afternoon turns more hectic. He blames the lunch hour – a small hour where information is quickly passed from person to person, each time twisted and pulled into a new form until he starts hearing of insurance scams and suicide and he cannot take it anymore.

He nods to Fuery on his way out and carefully ignores the stares and whispers that follow him throughout the compound.

_I heard that they were lovers._

_He smothered her with a pillow._

_She was going to blackmail him._

_She walked in on him with another woman._

_They’d had an awful fight._

_Her neighbours said that they heard shots._

Each distortion makes him sick to his stomach and he grows angry at how callously she is being treated. Captain Hawkeye, who in life, had been well-respected and liked by her peers at East City was suddenly thrown under the bus because they didn’t know the details and _thought that they deserved to know_.

He nearly slams the door behind him as he makes his way out onto the parade grounds, quickly cutting across onto the side exit on Bourke Avenue. Jean stands for a moment by the exit, breathing deeply and counting the cars and trucks going past. He counts sixty-eight cars and twenty-three trucks before he feels himself beginning to relax – there is a stabbing pain in his neck that he can tell won’t go away soon and he realises with annoyance that he left his cigarettes on his desk.

It’s not too far to Pinewood Avenue from here, he thinks, adjusting his collar and pointedly ignoring the gaping soldier next to him who has just realised who he is. He was going to skip out of work early anyway, and the Madame will no doubt have a small job for him to do. He shrugs on his coat quickly, praying to whatever might be listening to give him enough strength to ignore the comments beginning to stream out of the young soldier’s mouth.

…It also wouldn’t be a bad idea to find out how the General is faring. Larissa had dropped by Fuery’s this morning but had little in the way of information – and neither Jean nor Fuery knew whether to interpret that as good or bad omen. He was glad he was not there for when the man woke up – that was a conversation that he doubts anybody could prepare for and the Madame was a bloody saint in his eyes for taking the man in under such awful circumstances.

Perhaps time had softened the blow.

Jean doubts that is the case.

* * *

It’s quiet on Pinewood Avenue as he makes his way to the saloon – the wind today is a bitter one, cutting into his skin sharply. He’s grateful to slip into the saloon – Matilda is out front today, and she looks a little confused at his entrance.

“Did something else happen?” she asks, moving from behind the bar to greet him properly, helping him out of his coat. Jean shakes his head.

“The rumours were getting…awful,” he manages, and Matilda sighs sympathetically, guiding him to a bar stool and throwing his coat onto a nearby chaise lounge without a second glance.

“Tea?” she asks him, moving back behind the bar and pulling out several small boxes. He nods, drumming his fingers on the polished cedar. He could _really_ go for a smoke right now.

Matilda is quick and efficient, steeping the tea _just right_ and winking as she brings out an old tin full of what looks like home baking. “This is only for the nice ones,” she says conspiratorially.

The tea is hot and bursting with tannins. Jean doesn’t know whether his grief has made him suddenly appreciate what is essentially boiled leaf water, but he is grateful nonetheless for a distraction.

Matilda nurses her own cup of tea which smells of spice and bergamot. “Do you need me to pass along a message to Madame?” she asks him, nabbing another biscuit from the rusting tin. Jean shakes his head.

“Where are they?” he asks, noticing for the first time how truly empty the saloon is this afternoon. He knows it is a Tuesday, but still –

“They went out this morning,” Matilda replies quietly. Her fingers grip her teacup tightly, her knuckles almost blanching white. “I’ve never seen Roy so…” she trails off, biting her lip and blinking furiously. She shakes her head quickly. “They won’t be back until late tonight, I think. You’re welcome to stay if you need to.” She takes another sip of tea, her hands only shaking slightly as she holds her teacup.

Jean nods, and drinks some more tea. It’s a nice reprieve from Eastern Command, from how his life has suddenly flipped upside down. Thursday morning is looming ever closer and while Jean _knows_ he should be focusing on his work and trying to get as much done as possible done before her funeral, he doesn’t think Riza would begrudge him a cup of tea.

He laughs a little under his breath. No, she _definitely_ would.

A comfortable silence falls over the two of them and Jean watches as the leaves that slipped past the strainer make strange patterns in the bottom of his teacup.

“Do you want me to read your leaves?” he asks Matilda suddenly. This is either a _terrible_ idea or the best he’s had all week and her resulting smile and offered cup makes him think that, with time, there’s a chance they might be alright after all.

“Alright,” he begins, swirling the dregs in her cup three times in a clockwise direction, before placing the saucer on top. “Are you ready to learn when you’ll finally get married?”

Matilda giggles. “So long as it’s not to you, Mr. Havoc.”

He smiles, upturning the cup and saucer and tapping the teacup three times. “I can guarantee nothing but the truth, my dear.”


	7. rebecca catalina

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer update! To make a long story short, university has started and I was without internet for about a week. The upside, however, is that I wasn’t distracted by said internet so I got a fair bit of writing done! I hope you enjoy this next instalment and my apologies for the following confusion if you’re not a fan of Hamilton, but I didn’t want to miss this golden opportunity. You have all been asking, after all.
> 
> Ladies and gentlemen!  
> Here comes the general!  
> The moment you’ve been waiting for!  
> Here comes the general!  
> The pride of East City!  
> Here comes the general!  
> Roy Mustang!

Rebecca is certain that if Riza were here right now she would have slapped her over the head already, indignant and angry at how she is acting. But Riza’s not here. She’s in a morgue somewhere, pale with sunken cheeks, being poked and prodded and cut open in the search for the reason why her heart suddenly decided to stop in the night. It does not matter what they find, natural causes or not. None of it will bring her back.

And this is why Rebecca’s having an argument with the General about who Black Hayate is going to live with from now on.

“I AM PRACTICALLY HER SISTER!”  Rebecca _screams_ , clenching her fists to her side and trying to ignore the tears spilling onto her face. “YOU WERE HER _SUPERIOR_! WHY SHOULD YOU GET TO DECIDE WHAT HAPPENS TO HER LIFE?”

“YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT SHE MEANS TO ME!” he bellows back, but Rebecca is tired and _hurting_.

“Go on then,” she all but hisses. “ _Say it._ You won’t get into trouble now, will you?” It’s a low blow – a _very_ low blow and she regrets her words as quickly as they are spat out. Mustang looks at her like she just proclaimed herself the murderer – and immediately her shoulders slump and she collapses in front of him, bawling her eyes out and nearly screaming with how _empty_ she feels inside.

This wasn’t how it was meant to happen.

She doesn’t quite understand why Mustang decided to come back to work – the day before her best friend’s funeral – the day before his – _whatever_ they were, and his appearance only serving to fuel the rumours which have been swirling around her like a hurricane. This entire week has been hushed whispers and averted glances as people gossip about _her_.

Her crying is ugly and it feels like her throat will split in two. Every part of her is aching and hollow and Rebecca isn’t sure how much more she can take. Madame had been good to her following that awful phone call but it stings to realise that there aren’t many people she can rely on for support in this moment – not when they’re all grieving, not when each of them deserves to be a little selfish.

Rebecca thinks she might feel marginally better if she was hit by a train than deal with the General right now – he has sat down on the ground next to her, gripping her hand tightly, nails digging in harshly against her skin. She realises that she ought to feel the pain, but she feels distant and withdrawn. Her head feels like it has been stuffed with cotton wool and every inhalation makes it harder for her to breathe. Her chest is tightening in a _bad_ way and her hands are trembling when Mustang suddenly pulls her into a crushing hug.

“Breathe, Catalina,” he chokes out, his free hand roughly combing through her hair. There’s a moment where she feels that she cannot breathe at all – she feels light-headed and detached and only vaguely aware of the pain spreading out from her lungs and pooling in her fingers, but then it passes and all of a sudden she’s gasping and shaking and Mustang is the only thing that she can concentrate on.

He’s warm and soft as she buries her head into his shoulder and tries to count between her inhalations and exhalations. She doesn’t know how long they sit there, awkwardly tangled in each other’s limbs as she cries and wails into his uniform. All she can focus on is how little she can actually feel right now.

Mustang’s fingers in her hair keep her grounded as she feels a scream tear its way out of her throat.


	8. olivier mira armstrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uni is back in full swing and i am busy writing pretentious journals about the ever-changing african narrative of jazz in a western context and american historiography and let me tell u i am OVER IT already lmao
> 
> i hope you enjoy this chapter!!!!! this was a really fun one to look at and try and grapple with in not such a direct way as other chapters have been. plus, olivier is bae, amiright

Major-General Olivier Mira Armstrong prides herself on running a _very_ tight ship at Briggs – so tight that it is ridiculously easy to tell when a scandal has erupted within the ranks. Her soldiers are like schools of fish today, and she is the hungry barracuda that can’t quite catch them when she draws near.

It is _maddening_.

Whatever it was, it must’ve been truly scandalous, Olivier thinks as she strides back to her office, watching as groups of soldiers scuttle away from her like pill bugs when exposed to the sun. Something _big._

She nearly kicks down the door to her office and Major Cannady stands to attention. “Sir,” she says quickly, saluting. “I thought you were inspecting the shipments.”

“I _was_ , Major. That has been dealt with.” The General eyes up the young recruit. She’s a new one – good with codes, good with languages, and the intricacies that are sometimes overlooked.

Armstrong can think of many good uses for a soldier like Cannady, recently promoted from the boondocks of the East and desperate to prove herself against her peers.

She gestures her hand dismissively and throws her coats and gloves onto the small couch in her office, Major Cannady following dutifully behind her.

“How long have you been stationed at Fort Briggs, Major?” she asks briskly, running a hand through her long hair and making a mental note to cut it tonight.

“Roughly five months, sir.”

Armstrong nods. “And how well do you think you know Fort Briggs, Major?”

This makes the young woman pause. “Sir?”

Armstrong sits down at her desk and shoots an irritated look at the paperwork waiting for her approval. “I know you’re good with patterns Major, it’s why I requested your transfer here. What patterns have you noticed here?”

Cannady thinks for a moment.

“Individuality is sacrificed for the good of the group in most situations. These soldiers value cohesion greatly.”

“Do they seem cohesive to you today, Major?”

“No.”

The reply is instantaneous and Armstrong notes the flicker of fear on Cannady’s face before she schools her expression to remain impassive.

“Why?”

“I don’t think it’s my place to say, sir.”

Armstrong huffs. “I say it is. Out with it, _soldier_.”

Cannady swallows. “Apparently Captain Riza Hawkeye is dead.”

“Apparently?” Armstrong manages. She is no stranger to death, after all: Fort Briggs suffers some of the highest casualty rates in the country – the Drachman’s give as good as they get. But the East was a sleepy, _useless_ excuse for a district. Captain Riza Hawkeye could not have _died._

 “There are many theories on what _really_ happened, sir. But I think these soldiers are just desperate for some attention that isn’t centred on the Fort.”

“What makes you say that, Major?”

Cannady pauses. “This morning,” she begins slowly, “all the rumours were saying that _maybe_ she had died. Now the rumours are saying that she was found dead, and _who_ found here and _where_ they found her changes depending on who you ask. People always add their own opinion to incidents that don’t involve them. It makes their story seem more legitimate over another version.”

Armstrong sits back in her chair, regarding the Major shrewdly. “What do _you_ think happened?” she asks, watching as Cannady prepares her tea.

“Opinion is almost unanimous that it was General Mustang who found her. It is divided on where he found her. If she had been found in his bed there would be no rumour that he had to be tranquilised at her house.”

This gets her attention. “Mustang was tranquilised?”

Cannady places the tea on front of her. “If you wish to believe that particular rumour, sir. There is also a rumour saying he beat up fourteen medics before they could get to her body. There is another saying he is burning down buildings in East City as we speak.”

Armstrong snorts. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” she mutters under her breath, watching the steam curl up from the tea cup. “But that isn’t what I asked, Major. What do you think has happened?”

Cannady rolls on the balls of her feet a little and takes a deep breath before responding. “I think the rumours speak the truth when they say that Captain Hawkeye has died. I do not believe General Mustang was expecting it, because otherwise there would not be rumours. From memory he is…very protective over his team. He would not want it spread around the military the way is has been.”

Armstrong nods, taking a sip of her tea. It is perfectly spiced. “What I am about to say to you will not leave this room, Major Cannady,” she says carefully, watching the other woman. Cannady nods, and stands at attention.

“Captain Hawkeye is – well, if rumours are to be believed – _was_ devoted to Mustang to a fault. Many times I offered her a position here at Briggs. She refused each time. Those two…” she falters here, sighing. “The trust they placed in each other is unlike any I have ever seen – and I doubt I will see again.”

“Even compared to Fort Briggs, sir?”

Armstrong allows a wan smile. “Even compared to Fort Briggs, Major – and you know I do not say that lightly.”

“No, sir.”

There’s silence for a while as Armstrong fiddles with her tea cup, and the Major waits to be dismissed.

“This will break him,” she says finally, lowly. “Mustang without Hawkeye is like – like…”

Armstrong shakes her head. “Dismissed, Major,” she says, barely acknowledging the Major’s salute and the quiet _click_ of the door shutting behind her.

Olivier is quiet in her office for a long time.


	9. mei chang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again! i have so many ideas swirling around in my head but i managed to complete another chapter of this fic so i'm very pleased with myself. i've never written mei before so i would love to hear what you think of my take on her! this chapter is a little smaller than others but it felt right to leave it as a small reflection rather than a dialogue-heavy piece (which we may or may not see in future chapters haha).
> 
> comments are always appreciated and encouraged - i would love to know your thoughts on how this ficlet collection is progressing!

Being part of a large clan – even a clan like the Chang's, which is quite small compared to the other clans in Xing – means that Mei is no stranger to death and loss, to the traditions that accompany it: but this one in particular stings a little bit more than she wants it to.

She has heard many stories about Captain Hawkeye over the years from both Alphonse and Edward, and privately she wishes she had maybe spent more time in this country in the aftermath of the Promised Day, when wounds were fresh and alliances were easy to forge. Mei thinks that she would've gotten on well with the woman, given the chance.

But now she is dead. Captain Riza Hawkeye is dead – despite the awful odds handed to her during the Promised Day: despite the odds that were certainly _not_ in her favour as she bled out on a cursed and carved transmutation circle deep in the bowels of this godforsaken country.

The irony is not lost on Mei that all her efforts were ultimately in vain.

Alphonse is quiet next to her as they wait for Edward and Winry's train to arrive – apparently the trains were always late coming in from the East. "Time doesn't matter as much when you're from the country," Alphonse had said, a thin smile gracing his lips. There's a gauntness to his face that she hasn't seen since the few hours she had spent with him in the aftermath of the Promised Day, and Mei realises with a sinking feeling in her gut that this will be the first major death (maybe even the first death alone) since he regained his body.

Mei understands that death has always been understood in the abstract for Alphonse, even when faced with it directly. Everything was so much _more_ in his own body, he had explained: sensations and experiences that he had come across in his armour were suddenly heightened when it came to his original body. Even now, seven years on, Alphonse still suffered from overstimulation that would shift into panic attacks if he couldn't remove himself from the situation quickly.

The funeral was not going to be an easy experience to deal with.

Mei adjusts the jersey she is wearing as she sits next to him by platform five. It is a pale pink wool blend that itches a little. It was a gift from Alphonse – made from the wool that supported his hometown and while she is grateful for the gift and the implications behind it, Mei would feel far more comfortable in the clothes of her own country. It feel so _improper_ to wear such a casual garment the day before a respected person's funeral – in Xing, the mourning process is organised and structured.

Here it feels like very few know what they are doing, where they should be. Its awkwardness lingers around her like a particularly pungent perfume, and it's hard to shake off – it clings to the crevices and hollows of her body and makes her feel like a stranger in her own skin.

Perhaps for Amestrian's fearing death was in their culture, rather than a by-product of a homunculus's wishes gone horribly awry.

There's a sharp _squeal_ as a train suddenly pulls into view and Alphonse has leapt to his feet, running down the platform to see in the train, arriving forty minutes late. Mei stays put, rolling back her shoulders and sitting up a little straighter. Xiao Mei makes a noise of discontentment from where she has been sleeping on her lap – but she too, stretches and carefully climbs her way up onto her customary perch onto Mei's shoulder, tucking herself in amongst Mei's loose hair. Her hand rests on Alphonse's overcoat next to her, and she traces the familiar fabric with the whorls of her fingertips. Tomorrow will be alien and unknown to her and what _will_ be familiar will not be enjoyable or happy in the slightest.

Three familiar shades of golden hair approach her amongst the disembarking crowd and Mei stands, the muscles surrounding her lips tightening a little as she wills herself to remain impassive.

The unease settles deep in her gut however, and Winry's perceptive eyes narrow slightly in response.


	10. vato falman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long break between updates. To make a long shitty story short: my cat died very suddenly and very violently; the anniversary of the death of a dear friend happened; my ex had an unnecessary go at me; and my other cat nearly got run over as well but didn’t and now might lose her eye.
> 
> It’s been an awful month and funnily enough all these sad and crappy feelings didn’t make me feel like writing about feeling sad and crappy lmao. Updates will continue be sporadic as I finish this trimester.

> _The first stage of grief is denial._

Vato Falman wakes up bang on four-thirty in the morning in Fuery’s apartment – even without the alarm he has in his room at Fort Briggs, some habits are hard (and dangerous) to break.

He’s surprised he managed any sleep, considering the circumstances. There’s a bitter taste in his mouth that has nothing to do with the fact that he forgot to pack a toothbrush in his rush to catch the last train for East City. He sits up in the bed slowly; rubbing at his eyes and trying his best not over-think the events that lie before him today.

> _The second stage of grief is anger._

Louise is a foul name, a **_foul_** word, Vato decides. It escapes the mouth like an asp and he could almost hear Fuery’s teeth clenching as he relayed the message over a connection made terrible by a growing snowstorm. _Lou-ise_. _Feminine form of Louis. Famous warrior, renowned_ _fighter._

The apartment is quiet as he sits up in the bed, watching the clouds drift across the night sky from the window opposite, hazy in ugly shades of orange from the streetlights below. The north is so much cleaner, more black and white in environment as well as mentality.

East City bleeds itself into the dry ground it is built upon on, and gives nothing back in return. He will be happy to leave this place as soon as he can manage – and he’ll accept whatever consequences wait for him back at Fort Briggs. His departure had been hasty, and not entirely by-the-book; the graveyard shift will be the least of his worries if his superiors are feeling particularly vindictive.

They will be. It is Briggs, after all.

> _The third stage of grief is bargaining._

In the distance he can hear the faint strains of bird-song – a sound long-forgotten amidst the grinding of machinery at Fort Briggs. It takes him a few moments to recognise which species of bird he is hearing – and it embarrasses him that his reaction is not as quick as it once was.

He is trained now to recognise patterns in data and extrapolate patterns where none appear to exist. He knows the footfalls of all his superior officers and can describe them in detail – he also knows the _not_ sound of Drachman spies, and how they try not to be heard as they creep around the fort. It is not the life that Vato had planned for himself – he had always been a summer child and _never_ considered to be a true threat by anybody – but he cannot deny that he not _unhappy_ with how it has all turned out.

Part of him just wishes he could return to a simpler time where his mistakes didn’t cost the lives of his fellow soldiers.

> _The fourth stage of grief is depression._

Carefully, he pushes himself out of the lumpy bed and stretches his back and arms accordingly. They ache in a way that has nothing to do with the chill he can feel in the room – the condensation on the windows has already pooled down onto the windowsill in large puddles threatening to spill over onto the floor proper. Vato grabs the towel he used from last night and begins to soak up what he can, making sure that none of the water runs down into the carpet.

He hasn’t felt this exhausted in a long time – even in his first month at Fort Briggs, which was near-constant icicle duty and a dull ache that settled in his joints and never quite went away – he never remembers feeling this awful and fatigued.

Even the Promised Day did not leave him in such a state – but Vato supposed there was no adrenaline to temper this blow, only a sinking feeling in his gut that grew with every passing moment.

He can feel it now, curling and coiling with every breath. His eyes prick uncomfortably, and a choked sound escapes his throat before he can compose himself. The wet towel scrunches in his hands as he tries to calm himself down and he feels the cold water dripping off his fingers.

This was not right. It was not _fair_.

It was not –

> _The fifth and final stage of grief is acceptance._

He can hear faint sounds from the kitchen – the familiar wail as water comes to the boil, the clinking of crockery as Fuery begins preparing for the day. Vato isn’t sure if he feels well enough to eat food _and_ keep it down, but he knows he hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday and though her funeral will be efficient and short, he is all too aware of the limits of the human body and psyche.

He folds the now sodden towel as neatly as he can manage, and makes his way out of the spare bedroom. The smell of freshly-brewed tea invites him into the little kitchen, where Fuery is hunched over a steaming mug with bleary eyes.

There’s a pause as they size each other up, before Fuery sighs and nods his head to the cupboard next to the doorframe.

“The gin’s in there,” he says tiredly. “Unless you prefer Drachman _wódka_ and have managed to nick some for this momentous occasion.”

Vato snorts and opens the cupboard, quickly locating the ornate bottle. “I barely had time to pack a bag,” he says, sitting down opposite the younger man. “Gin will do fine.”

Fuery nods and sips his earl grey.


	11. führer george grumman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternate chapter title: u can't spell 'funeral' without 'fun'
> 
> anyway grumman is one of those characters that i have always felt wary of – in my eyes he is not the doting grandparent the fandom occasionally makes him out to be, but rather that he has his own agenda going on and to me he is more self-serving than mustang could ever be when the need arises. it was interesting trying to negotiate those feelings i have about him as well as showing that he is capable of an emotional reaction – as someone who was removed from the equation not by choice, and had to deal with the fallout with limited resources. perhaps ol’ bertie is due for a bit more credit than what i give him at times, ay?

The sky is a ridiculous blue when his youngest grandchild is buried, in a small cemetery on the outskirts of village an hour from East City.

It is a simple ceremony. There is no fanfare or frivolity. It is what she would have wanted.

It is not what _he_ wants.

Grumman has attended many funerals in his career – it is a hazard of the job when you are responsible for so many lives – but none have been quite as tragic as this. He realises that he is not just mourning for his granddaughter, as he watches her coffin approach across the grass. He is also mourning for his little girl – sweet, beautiful, _delicate_ Caroline, whom he never saw again after that awful argument.

He is mourning for the family he has lost. For the family he will never regain.

Grumman had such high hopes for the two of them.

His gaze shifts to where Mustang is, surrounded by his men and next to him, his aunt. They’re easily the largest group in attendance – at least a hundred of them, Madame Christmas the only one standing out amongst the sea of blue and black in a dark burgundy coat with a white fur trim. She’s not entirely ostentatious on her own, but then Grumman notices the small groups of women dotted elsewhere in the cemetery, with beautiful curls and dark veils. They look like the little porcelain dolls he used to buy for his daughter, all immaculate and still and slightly unnerving.

A cool breeze shifts through the cemetery and he drags his attention back to the hole before him in the ground. He is grateful that she isn’t being buried alongside her mother and _him_. He wasn’t even aware of this borough before he pulled up with his personal detail – tucked away behind the Cremil Ranges, next to a small village with a small but steady economy based upon sheep, cattle, and curious city-folk. The air is cleaner here, cooler than the likes of East City, and Grumman wonders what exactly led her to buy a grave plot in a place that by all accounts she has never visited nor has any discernable ties to.

As he has learned in his old age, wasting time on regrets or missed opportunities gets you nowhere – but there is an uncomfortable sting as he realises how little he actually understood his grandchild, all things considered. He had _tried to_ – but at the time she had been young and scared and grieving for the blood on her hands and no amount of _we’re family now, Riza_ could convince her that he could be that to her – that _family_ could mean something different than shut doors, silence and a _fucking tattoo._

_Subject has a large, partially burned back tattoo than spans from the shoulders to lower back. Appears to be alchemic in nature, though further research would need to be conducted to ascertain what it is referring to. Burns are from several years ago, affecting the upper and lower dermis of the skin, though not to the point of the muscles. Bleeding of the ink implies either an amateur job, or done when the subject was still in puberty – marks of growth affect the emblem and Latin somewhat._

_The tattoo is unlikely to be the cause of death, though the lack of its mention in other accompanying health records gives cause to be suspicious._

Chris had been far too dismissive when he had called her, the death report from the coroner crushed and torn in his hands as he fought not to cry or yell or _scream_ down the receiver. _When did this happen?_ he had asked, hands shaking and voice cracking under the stress of finding out that she was every bit a stranger to him as he had feared and it was all because of _him_.

_When she was a teenager, I imagine. The rest was burned after Ishval._

_And you knew?_

_Of course I knew, George. Who do you think smuggled the morphine so she wouldn’t have to go to hospital?_

The rumours this week had been awful. He truly had underestimated what Central was capable of – Central, which only has the barest of ties with the Eastern district even at the best of times – had still managed to find out the day after she died.

They had not been kind.

Everything from suicide to murder had been hotly discussed – and though he didn’t hear the brunt of it, thank every god and goddess and saint – his presence here today would only fuel those rumours even more.

He wouldn’t be surprised if his connection to her was common knowledge before the week is out. He doesn’t care, really. It will not affect him in the slightest.

It will affect Mustang, however. Though his detractors have kept very quiet this week (and that in itself is already suspicious), they won’t stay that way for long. Mustang is a talented soldier – that cannot be disputed, but Grumman will not deny that he has held a soft spot for the kid – a soft spot that was put there by his granddaughter. From the few, stilted conversations they had over the years, he was able to gather that it was Mustang that took care of her, even when _that man_ was still alive.

He has a lot to thank the General for, but right now, he can only feel anger. Logically, he knows it’s not his fault – no one’s fault but her own, really – but he had to find out through his secretary gossiping to someone on the phone and he doesn’t think he will be able to forgive the Mustang’s for that for a _very_ long time.

The soldiers who carry her casket come to a stop in front of the small crowd. A man – someone Grumman doesn’t recognise – drones on for a bit about how tragic it was that she was taken so young, but yet that they should all take solace in knowing that her life was not lived in vain. Mustang at this point looks like he’s either going to hurl or collapse as the balding man continues, listing her achievements and medals won in the Ishvallan civil war like he is reading the morning’s weather report.

It is entirely too blasé for him – for many of the soldiers, Grumman notices, who are all glaring at the speaker as if to kill him with the sheer power of their expressions alone. Grumman was relatively aware of the work that they had completed in helping rebuild the Ishvallan district, but yet it’s only now he notices how many of the other attendees have the conspicuous red eyes or ashen hair. They blend in well in their Amestrian formalwear – perhaps as a sign of respect, he concedes.

The speaker finishes on some awful comment about the idea of life after death and Grumman grimaces as they lower her casket into the ground. He watches as they all shuffle by, raining handfuls of dirt over her. He spies the Elric boys, accompanied by two women – one looks distinctly uncomfortable as she nears the open grave, the other pauses before fiddling at her ears before dropping the jewellery down instead of the dirt. Grumman is faintly scandalised but the moment passes and he feels a hand at his elbow as one of his new bodyguards – Elana? Eloise? – gestures towards the waiting car at the fringes of the cemetery.

“We need to go now, sir.” Her tone is firm, but polite and he heaves his shoulders a little bit, but nods and adjusts his cap and turns away from the awaiting congregation. He hears the faintest of whispers as he passes but he pays them no mind. Let them talk, let them gossip. If they were smart enough to realise the connection, they would also be smart enough to realise why continuing to talk would be dangerous for their careers.

The ride back to East City is quiet and his other bodyguard – Fiona? – reads a book as the car winds back through paddocks of sheep and pumpkins. It isn’t until he spots the familiar skyline of East City that he finally places this odd feeling that’s settled in his gut since the two of them arrived at his office that morning.

Eloise has done her job perfectly – she looked and acted the part _exactly_ , but Fiona hadn’t lost all the vestiges of her glamorous other life – and he knows that particular perfume anywhere. It’s hard to shake off wealth when you’re accustomed to it, and he would bet on his life that Fiona is one of the new girls – this being her first assignment to see if she can cut it as person other than herself.

“How much is the Madame paying you today?” he asks casually, enjoying how Fiona’s fingers still on the pages of her book and Eloise’s hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter than necessary, knuckles whitening. Neither woman responds.

Grumman nods his head and feels the anger settle slightly in his clenched jaw. His whole body is tense and it takes every ounce of what frayed willpower he has left not to slam his hand down on the plush leather interior of the car.

“Enough not to talk?” he manages. “Well, that’s alright then. The General and I will have a little chat about this later.” There’s only the slightest tremor in his voice and he feels his ears beginning to warm. He is angry and embarrassed and _insulted_ – how dare he be removed from this moment of grief before he is ready; how _dare_ Madame Christmas have the _audacity_ to dictate how and when he should mourn for his grandchild.

“He doesn’t know,” Eloise says quickly, eyes firmly on the road ahead. “You will need to bring it up with the Madame. She orchestrated it all. Your security is severely _lacking, sir._ ” There’s venom in her timbre and Grumman is a little taken aback at how vehement her response is to a man who could do more than just _hurt her_ – all he needs a single phone call and the both of them will disappear from the face of this earth with hardly a sound: and Grumman doubts that somehow the Madame will make a fuss over either of their sudden and silent departures from her establishment with more than a blink of her eyes and a quiet sigh.

His gloved hands ball into tight fists and Grumman focuses on his breathing. _In. Out._

_In._

_Out_.

Eloise keeps driving.


	12. edward elric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!!!!!! sorry for the delay – real life has been making an appearance but now things should be under control. this is possibly my favourite chapter i have written so far for reasons that will become obvious quickly – it was a real challenge to get the tone of this chapter just right. some creative licence has been taken with certain processes but it’s not an integral part of the story so it’ll be okay (i think haha)

Edward is fairly sure he has never felt more awkward as he sits in a chair next to Mustang in some lawyer’s office a week after Captain Hawkeye’s funeral. He isn’t entirely sure why _he’s_ been summoned – he can’t think of any reason why he would need to be present at the reading of a will (and he’s unsure of what reason _why_ the Captain thought to include him). It is a small drab room, painted in a yellow that has not aged well – he can see the marks where condensation has cut through the faint blackness of mould beginning to form at the base of the wall.

It’s fucking depressing, and he doesn’t want to be here at all.

There’s a sudden banging, and the man who Edward assumes is the lawyer enters the room, nearly tripping over himself with boxes and plainly marked files. It’s too much for one person to handle with grace, but Mustang simply watches with what Edward can only describe as disdain.

This was going to be a fun interaction.

“Sorry about that…” the lawyer mutters, unceremoniously dropping the boxes next to his desk and shrugging in a _well what can you do?_ manner when they go spilling all over the carpet, dust motes being thrown into the air.

He sits down in the chair behind the desk and it creaks and strains under his weight. “Well,” he begins, clasping his hands together and flashing an oily grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “You two are here today because of the last will and testament of a certain Riza Caroline Hawkeye.” A beat passes as he eyes the two men up. “Sorry for your loss,” he adds, trying (and failing) to sound even remotely empathetic.

Mustang snorts in derision.

“Luckily for you,” the balding man continues, as if he was never interrupted, “is that this is a very simple matter indeed. Her instructions were minimal and direct. I doubt there will be any disputes over this.” He leans over his desk to grab another file, and the chair groans dangerously as he does so. Edward would be tempted to find all of this funny if the reasons for his being here didn’t exist.

He flicks through the file quickly, and extracts a single sheet of parchment, covered in stamps and a crumbling wax seal on the bottom left corner.

“I’ll begin reading it now,” he says. “Please don’t interrupt while I do so.”

The man clears his throat.

“ _I, the undersigned, Riza Caroline Hawkeye of 346 3b Newland Street, East City, hereby declare this to be my Will.  I hereby revoke all previous wills or testamentary writings made by me. I nominate Jacob Marcus Collinger of 37 Adelaide Road, East City, to be the Executor of my Estate. Should he be unwilling or unable to act as executor, I nominate Rebecca Elaine Catalina of 93c Coppermine Road, Central City. I direct that my estate shall devolve as follows:_

_To Edward Aristotle Elric, I leave my dog, Black Hayate, in your care._

_To Roy Nicholas Mustang, I bequeath the residue of my estate._

_In witness whereof I have signed this will at 48b Willowstone House, on the 11 th of June, 1917 in the presence of the undersigned witnesses who in my presence and in the presence of each other have signed this will as witnesses. Signed, Riza Caroline Hawkeye; Jacob Marcus Collinger; Rebecca Elaine Catalina._”

Jacob clears his throat noisily and watches the two of them with beady eyes. “Very simple indeed,” he says matter-of-factly, laying the paper down on his desk. “Are there any objections?”

“Yes.” Mustang says shortly. “Hayate isn’t going to Edward.”

A strange smile settles on Jacob’s face. “You’re Mustang, then.” It isn’t phrased as a question, and Edward can almost see the hackles beginning to rise on the Flame Alchemist’s back.

“What of it?” Mustang replies, a silky timbre creeping into his voice. This is quickly veering into dangerous territory and Edward shifts in his chair, jaw tensing as the two men gauge each other.

“She said you might be…what’s the word? Ah, _difficult._ Regardless, she has instructed that her dog goes to young Edward here –” he gestures a stubby hand towards him. “From what I can remember her saying, she felt the city wouldn’t suit him well as he got older. However, if Mr Elric here also feels the same way…” he trails off, and he two men look at him expectantly. Edward shrinks a little under their stare, wishing that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

“I think…” he begins tentatively, very much aware that his former superior undoubtedly has the gloves somewhere on his person, “that we should respect her wishes. This isn’t really about either of us.” He swallows, and fiddles with his fingers. “And no offense General,” he continues, enjoying how the leer slides off the lawyer’s face quicker than his son stealing a cookie when Winry’s back is turned, “but you have more important things to do than take care of a dog, Hayate or not.”

Mustang’s jaw tenses, but he doesn’t say anything.

Edward turns back to the lawyer, who is looking significantly more uncomfortable as he leans back in his chair, avoiding looking at Mustang entirely. “Was there anything else we needed to  be told, or can we go now?”

The relief is palpable on the man’s face and he shakes his head quickly. “Just this letter,” he says, pointing to a small envelope on top of the folder embossed **Hawkeye, R. C.** It simply says _Roy_ on the front, in a sweeping set of lines that Edward recognises immediately. Mustang picks up the letter gingerly, and levels a hard stare at the sweating man behind the desk.

He stands up, and his coat brushes Edward as he passes. “Fullmetal,” he says gruffly.

Edward looks up in confusion.

Mustang jerks his head towards the door and leaves: Edward follows tentatively, muttering a hasty goodbye to the lawyer as he passes.

* * *

He walks with the man to a park nearby where the lawyer’s office is, and Mustang sits down on a bench near the artificial lake. He’s still grasping the unopened envelope tightly, his knuckles almost blanched completely white.

Edward sits down next to him and watches the swans gliding across the still waters of lake, unsure of whether he should speak or remain silent.

“Fullmetal-” Mustang starts, but he shakes his head and sighs. “Edward,” he begins again, handing him the unopened letter. “Could I trouble you to read that, please?”

Edward stares at the older man in shock. “I- that- that letter is for _you,_ I don’t think I should-”

“Ri-” her name catches in Mustang’s throat and the man sighs heavily, closing his eyes. “R- _Riza_ did not say who could or could not read this letter, she only addressed to me.” His arm is still extended, and Edward cautiously accepts the envelope.

“Please read it when you are ready,” Mustang says quietly, leaning further back into the park bench, gaze settling somewhere on the far side of the lake.

Carefully, as not to tear the envelope, Edward slides his thumb under the lip and slowly undoes the thin glue. He pulls out a single sheet of stationary and opens it.

The paper is old and crumpled, with stains marring the edges. It was dated the same day that the will was signed for, he notes, eyes quickly running over what few sentences remain of a woman he can only begin to admit now was like a mother to him. There is intimacy in these words that he should not be reading – he practices them with his mouth, silently. They are familiar, and Edward wonders where he has heard them before.

“ _Roy_ ,” he begins shakily. “ _No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms._ ” He pauses here, trying his best not to cry. Her handwriting is achingly familiar – her _z’s_ that loop _just so_ and the little jumps where her pen left the parchment. He exhales heavily.

“ _Yours always, Riza_.”

Mustang doesn’t respond beyond shifting a little on the bench and Edward desperately wants to leave the park right this instant. This was something that was _intensely private –_ and while it answered many questions he had – it also raised far _far_ more, and Edward didn’t want to deal with that particular box right now.

It is certainly far more than he wants to consider right now, on a park bench with a man who is looking increasingly catatonic as the minutes pass.

After a while, Mustang holds out his hand once more, and Edward quickly places the letter back into the envelope and hands it back to him. Mustang tucks it into his breast pocket and adjusts the scarf around his neck. It wasn’t a particularly chilly day, but Edward notices how the older man’s hands are shaking.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither does Mustang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what riza is quoting in her letter to roy is a line from shakepeare’s much ado about nothing. it’s my favourite play of his (check out the david tennant and catherine tate version if you haven’t – they are comedy gold). as we know, the bard is always up for interpretation: but i always understood that quote from benedict to mean that he cannot and will not love beatrice in the ‘proper way’ – compared to the likes of hero and claudio who, while going through all the proper motions of love, still end up in a worse state than beatrice and benedict ever manage (and perhaps, it can be argued that beatrice and benedict have a love that’s truer and has more basis than that of naïve hero and claudio). 
> 
> in any case, i would happily argue that roy and riza do not love each other in the proper way, the traditional way – and that is why we enjoy them together so much!!!!!!


	13. elicia hughes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for sticking with me through what is undoubtedly the most gut-wrenching series i have written (thus far, there’s always room for improvement lmao). i know this is not the type of fic where you particularly want to encourage the writer, and yet so many of you have! i am forever grateful for all the yelling and sobbing directed my way: i can think of no higher honour than having people say they were emotionally moved by my writing. i hope in future fics i write i can continue that trend. 
> 
> if you’re keen for more angst and sadness, keen an eye out for my upcoming fic 'Beneath the Apple Tree', a semi-au that focuses on the murder of Edward and Winry’s daughter. it’s a plot-driven fic rather than one focusing on introspection, but if you’re in the mood for parents crying and getting angry at police it’ll be right up your alley.
> 
> this is probably not the character you were expecting to finish the series, but i hope you might understand why i chose her. as always, comments are forever appreciated and encouraged.

Elicia Regina Hughes is sixteen years old and the year is 1927. She’s gone with her mother to East City to visit a family friend – one that Elicia vaguely remembers from her childhood. She’s a nice enough woman – Rachel? Rhonda? Raewyn? – but Elicia is at the stage of her teenage-hood where she doesn’t want to remember when she was _cute_ and had little chubby cheeks and the barest of lisps.

As morbid and strange as it sounds, Elicia has always found solace in the many cemeteries that dot the country when she travels with her mother. Her friends call her _weird_ and _odd_ for holding such opinions but Elicia does not care – it is her second home, where her father has lived for most of her life and while she has never quite come to terms with losing him so early on in her own; at least when she visits him she is guaranteed time to think and perhaps come closer to understanding just how important her father was, and _why_ he had to die in a phone booth in late September.

It’s always quiet in the cemeteries. She sounds out names that have long been forgotten and brushes off the mould that grows on the oldest stones. She enjoys the family plots the most: where the real monuments to a legacy are embedded in marble and carved with prayers and hopes to escape the inevitability. Elicia’s never been one for religion – her father’s sudden and violent departure made sure of that – but she can understand how tempting, how easy it is to rely on faith in the hope of a better tomorrow than the reality of today.

She spots him over the crest of the small hill that the cemetery lays on. He’s always been a striking figure – dark hair and broad shoulders that seemed to be burdened with so much, even when she was a young girl.

They’re certainly burdened now, she thinks as she raises a hand and waves. There’s a moment before he recognises her – a pained expression on his face that morphs into a soft smile.

He takes his hat off as she approaches, and she is a little surprised to see the grey scattered throughout his hair. It has been a while, she supposes.

“Roy,” she greets him, and accepts the slightly stiff hug he gives her. She knows if her mother were here she would scold her for her bad manners – “ _He may be a family friend, but he is our Führer first and foremost!”_ – but her mother isn’t here and Elicia certainly doesn’t feel like being polite for the sake of his rank. She suspects he would rather have that honesty than faux niceties anyway – there are bags under his eyes in an awful shade of puce and his posture screams of a man exhausted.

He looks much older than what she remembers and it’s a little disconcerting.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he replies finally, shifting his weight a little. He pauses as a gust of wind passes through. “How are you?”

“I’m alright. School is out for the break,” she explains, noticing the small bouquet of flowers on top of the small plot they are standing beside. “I have my final exams soon.”

He smiles kindly, the fine lines around his eyes crinkling. “Dreading it?”

Elicia laughs, and shakes her head. “It will be okay…I think. I just have to remember names and dates. A _lot_ of them.”

“I’m sure you’ll do wonderfully. You’ve always been a bright kid.” His voice is warm and she smiles instinctively at the praise. He doesn’t need to say that her father would be proud of her.

They both know he would always be.

Her fingers twist over themselves and she bites her lip. “I didn’t expect to see _you_ here,” she says quietly, the words tasting bitter in her mouth. “Mum’s always asking you around to have dinner with us but your secretary just brushes her off every time. I know being Führer isn’t easy but-”

“You’ll have to forgive me.” He cuts across her smoothly, his voice still kind and warm and Elicia can’t help but feel a little slighted at his interruption. “I’ve been negotiating a lot of treaties on behalf of Ishval. Believe me when I say I’d love to delegate out my job but these treaties are far too important-”

“Are _we_ not important?” she asks angrily, her hands balling into fists. “We haven’t seen you in months. _Months!_ And _now_ you turn up in a random cemetery and act like nothing’s wrong?”

There’s a chilled silence after her outburst and Elicia knows she’s crossed a line – something she’s getting _very_ good at doing recently – he’s gone still and there’s a faraway look in his eyes.

“Today,” he says lowly, but not unkindly, “marks the fifth anniversary of my wife’s death.”

Elicia looks back down at the bouquet – she spies the vibrant baby-blue of forget-me-not and the bright yellows and reds of coronella and honey flower, as well as a small white flower with long stamen she can’t identify. It’s been a long time since she’s really bothered with the language of flowers – her mother loved making new centrepieces and wreaths with intricate meanings but all Elicia can properly translate is _love_ and _success_. It seems an odd message to leave at the foot of the carved name of _Riza Hawkeye_ – there is no epitaph, only her name and dates. No _beloved daughter,_ no _wife,_ nor _mother_ – just a well-polished piece of stone with a strange bouquet.

“I’m sorry,” Elicia mumbles.

Roy nods, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “It’s okay. You didn’t know. Nobody did, really.” He barks a strange and bitter laugh.

Another strong gusts blows past them, whipping her hair around her face roughly.

“Your father did, however,” he says after a while, kneeling down and adjusting the bouquet, tracing the small blossoms with a delicate hand. “He coerced a clerk to prematurely sign a marriage certificate. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t filed – as far as he was concerned we were as legal as your mother and him.”

She’s struck speechless by this admission. “ _Why_?” she asks, shifting a little closer and kneeling down next to him.

“Your father always wanted to see the best in people – he said we deserved more than what we would afford ourselves.” His tone is fond, reminiscing as his fingers carefully trace the stamen of the unfamiliar white flower. Elicia gestures towards it.

“What flower is that?”

A sad smile rests on the Führer’s face.

“Asphodel,” he answers.

* * *

“Mama?” she calls out as she shuts the door behind her.

“In the kitchen!” her mother replies and Elicia navigates through – _Roseanne’s?_ – house, finding her mother nursing a cup of tea while the other woman busies herself over the stovetop.

“How was your walk?” her mother asks and Elicia shrugs. She didn’t need to know the secrets Elicia uncovered today in a small cemetery two kilometres away. “I saw a horse,” she instead replies, sitting down in the empty chair next to her mother. The kitchen smells of ginger and golden syrup.

“Was he friendly?” her mother’s friend asks, looking up from what she is stirring. Elicia nods.

Her mother’s hand rests on her back and she slowly combs through Elicia’s silky hair. The wind outside had created some small knots, and Gracia works through them methodically.

“Mama…”

Gracia’s hand stills. “What is it?”

“Asphodel,” she says, the word dripping from her tongue strangely. It doesn’t sit well in her mouth. “What does it mean?”

“As a flower?” her mother asks, perplexed. Her hand stays still on Elicia’s back as she hums in thought.

“It’s not a very happy one,” Gracia begins, her fingers shifting through Elicia’s hair once more. “If I’m remembering rightly, it means ‘ _my regrets will follow you to the grave_ ’.”

* * *

i'm gonna dangle my feet over the wire  
despite your despair, i'm going over to the other side  
there's a break in the clouds where the crimson collects  
anticipate my demise, the world's different from up here  
  
am i caught in the background, or part of the scene?  
misery in the comedown, when i come down from here  
are we tangled in each other, or placed in between?  
like a stone, or a stone’s throw away from falling

am i just sketch in the landscape  
or arranged close to you?  
i think i fell into a strange fate with wandering limbs  
and eager hands

‘ _wandering limbs_ ’ – kimbra

 

 

**_fin_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> forget-me-not – true love  
> coronella – success crowns your wishes  
> honey flower – love, secret and sweet  
> asphodel – my regrets follow you to the grave


End file.
